17. Rose
Rose
I muster every inch of my pride and certainty as I stand there in front of the door, telling myself that I need to get the hell out of here already. My stomach is rumbling—I need to eat, and more importantly, so does the baby.
But the thought of leaving the bedroom right now is more than I can take. Because every man in this place saw me getting fucked by Ilya right there on the desk the day before, and I have no idea where that leaves me.
Come on, Rose.
I press my hand into the door and find it’s unlocked, much to my surprise. But when I push it open, I see two men standing on either side of it. Of course. I mean, I should have known that Ilya wouldn’t give me that much freedom.
I lower my gaze to the floor, feeling their eyes on me as I hurry past, praying that they don’t notice my blazing red cheeks.
I make my way to the kitchen, where Ilya is brewing coffee as though it’s just another day.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the back of his head, until he glances around and notices me.
“Good morning,” he says.
"Good morning? You’re going to talk to me like everything’s normal?”
He leans on the counter, coffee cup in one hand, expression unreadable. "How would you like me to talk to you?”
My cheeks flush as my brain offers an answer to that question—one that I won’t dignify with a confession. There’s a guard standing at the kitchen door, and while his eyes are fixed forward, I can tell that he’s listening in to our conversation.
"I mean, after what happened yesterday." I stammer.
"What part of it?"
He’s daring me to come out and say it, I can tell. I get the feeling that he likes teasing me this way, pushing me to my breaking point, trying to get me to admit how much I enjoy it.
But I won’t give in. I toss my hair over one shoulder, pressing my lips together.
"I want a coffee. Can you make me one?”
"You shouldn’t be drinking coffee. Not in your condition."
I roll my eyes skyward. "What, you’re my doctor now?"
"No," he replies evenly. "But the doctor will be by later today. He’s going to stop in every two weeks to check on how the pregnancy is advancing."
"Every two weeks?” I say. “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”
"I’m not taking any chances," he shoots back. "That baby is going to be born healthy. I’m going to make sure of it."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. No freedom, no privacy, and now no coffee. I think I’m going to lose it.
"And what am I meant to do in the meantime? Just stand around here, waiting for the baby to be born?”
A small grin quirks up the corner of his lip. "I can think of a few ways you could pass the time here. In fact, I showed you one yesterday."
I clench my fists at my sides, hoping to dissipate some of the tension that wants to rise in me right now. I hate how easy it is for him to get his hooks into me.
"I’m not...your men are going to think that I’m some kind of prostitute," I protest, running a hand through my hair. "I’m not going to do anything like that, not ever again. I—"
He steps towards me, casting his coffee cup aside and pulling me into a kiss before I can say another word.
His tongue snakes into my mouth as his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me in close and knocking every damn thought out of my head.
Stunned, I draw in a sharp breath against his lips.
One of his guards is right there, but he seems determined to prove that he has rights to me, no matter who is watching.
When he draws back, he is grinning again, no doubt aware of the effect he has on me. He releases me, and I cast my gaze to the floor, my body awash with emotions I can’t make sense of.
"I’ll have Marsha bring you breakfast in your room," he tells me. "Go. I’ll call you when the doctor arrives."
"You’re just going to keep me locked up there until—”
But the look he gives me casts me into silence, and I know that he’s done discussing this with me.
And I notice that there are dark rings under his eyes.
I wonder if that has anything to do with the note that I found in my room the other day, the note that announced that someone has it out for me.
I almost want to ask him, but I have pushed my luck too far as it is.
Better to head back to my room and lick my wounds, figure out what I’m going to do next, than try to plead my case again.
I slink off back in the direction of my room, and I swear I can feel the eyes of every single man in here on me as I do so.
What must they think of me? I can’t help but wonder if there have been other women he’s claimed like that.
The intensity of what we shared makes it hard to imagine, but then there is so much about this man that I don’t know.
So much that remains to be seen, whether I like it or not.
Just as I reach the doorway that leads to the corridor, I feel the hair at the back of my neck prickle.
I glance around, and at the far side of the room, I spot Sergei watching me from the entrance to his quarters.
I’m not sure how long he has been standing there, but his gaze is fixed on me, like there’s something he’s trying to figure out.
But as soon as I lock eyes with him, he turns away. I stare after him for a moment, wondering if I imagined it all. I don’t know what is going on with him, but I can’t help but recall how he turned away from the sight of Ilya and me the day before, too. Is it curiosity? Jealousy?
Or something else entirely?
I brush the thought off and make my way back to my room.
I have enough to worry about without getting into whatever is happening with the politics of this place.
I mean, Ilya clearly runs this mansion with an iron fist, and I doubt anything escapes his view.
That doctor he’s called upon to visit is no doubt part of the organization, too.
Suddenly, I wonder whether I should really trust Ilya, whether I can put my faith in a man who is involved in such darkness.
But I don’t see what other choice I have. I shower, and by the time I emerge from the bathroom, Marsha is stepping into the room with a tray of food. Eggs, toast, orange juice—the delicious scents waft towards me, and my mouth waters.
"Thank you," I murmur as she places the tray down in front of me.
She nods slightly, smiling, but I notice that she is avoiding my gaze. Is she worried about getting on the wrong side of me, or is she just all too aware of what happened yesterday? I don’t know, and truthfully, I’m not certain I want the answer.
I tuck in, trying to focus on the food before me, on all the things I have here that I didn’t before. Someone to cook for me, someone to organize appointments for me, someone who wants me in ways he will not hold back from. And I know, deep down, that I should be grateful in some demented way.
But there is something nagging at the back of my mind that warns me there’s more going on here than I think.
And that one way or another, I am going to face it.